


Anamnesis

by subversivegrrl



Category: Mad Max Fury road, Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subversivegrrl/pseuds/subversivegrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It goes against everything she’s built, to be drawn into whatever foolishness is germinating in the Vault.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * * * *</p>
</div>An-am-ne'-sis<br/>noun<br/>1. the recollection or remembrance of the past; reminiscence.<br/>2. the idea that humans possess knowledge from past incarnations and that learning consists of rediscovering that knowledge within us.
            </blockquote>





	Anamnesis

**Author's Note:**

> The seed of this was, quite simply, the question: how did Furiosa come to help the Wives escape?
> 
> (Not even slightly compliant with the backstory given in the Mad Max wiki--taken from that awful comic, I think?)
> 
> My first MMFR fic. My first fic written outside the Walking Dead fandom, TBH, so I’m kind of nervous. (this may stand as the most massive understatement of 2016.) Constructive criticism is welcome.

It’s the white that catches her eye. A flash, flittering around the corner ahead of her, stark in the endless drab-drab-drab, and her body tightens like a claw, anticipating the confrontation to come. Pair a pack of War Boys, howling reckless and new-blooded, with a lull in the work, and sometimes they’ll still convince one of their number it’s worth the risk to brace her, test her strength. Best Furiosa, and you’d be _historic_ , straight to Valhalla if you died in the doing.

They’ve got nothing else to dream of. All they know, to strive and die in the attempt.

It’s been years since any of them got the jump on her, and months since anyone was bored enough to make the attempt. She’s grown incautious, falling witless into her own thoughts in these moments when she travels home-familiar passageways.

Her footsteps slow as she approaches the branching where the whiteness disappeared, and she steps silently to the side of the corridor, her metal arm up as a shield. The razor-honed tip of her knife precedes her as she eases up to the opening. She holds her breath for a second and swings around the corner, blade held ready for the killing blow.

And looks _down_ , surprised, into fierce, dark eyes. 

Beneath a choppy fringe of black and the unmistakable swath of muslin that wreaths it, those eyes flare wide in startlement, and the woman audibly gulps air. Furiosa sheaths her knife, stepping away to lean on the opposite wall. Out of reach, but casual, so as to set the woman at ease. She ignores the tremor of relief that ripples up her own legs.

“Your escort go astray?” She tries and fails to recall the last time she has seen one of the Wives outside the Vault at all, let alone on her own. That latter maybe not since she was expelled. ( _Released_.)

She doesn’t know this one, but the small woman is visibly afraid. And silent. Lost, or runaway? Either way, blessings on her for whatever brief respite that affords her. Let the escort find her themselves, then, or not. Who is she, Furiosa thinks, _who is she_ to interfere with the destiny of another? and moves to leave, compelled to run from the unwelcome clench around her heart that calls _little sister!_

(Later one of them would tell her the gossip in the Vault was that Joe had taken her arm in punishment for slipping his seed yet again. It was considered bad luck even to speak to her. “Lies,” Angharad had spat. “She left here. She lived. We could, too.”)

“Came to see for myself,” the woman says behind her. When Furiosa turns, the snapping eyes are unabashed. There’s a bite to her words, like she’s been sent to learn the truth of something she’s already dismissed as a child’s tale from Time Before. “Expected you to be--”

A sudden burst of approaching voices echoes up the tunnel, startling them both. By the time Furiosa looks back, it’s as if the woman had never been there.

It’s not until well after the tiny figure has slipped away into the shadows that Furiosa realizes she’d meant literally what she said: she’d risked death to come and find Furiosa amid the warrens. And for what? It’s confusing enough to color her dreams for days to come.

* * * * *

The second time, weeks later, it’s early. She’s just rolled out of her rack and let one of her boys help strap her into the arm (she can manage without them just fine, but they like to do it, makes them feel they’re essential to her, not just replaceable cogs in Joe’s machine) before heading out to collect her rations. Just beyond the first turning a figure stands in her path, and she stops and stares in wonder.

“We can’t keep coming to you, it’s too hard. Toast was supposed to make sure you understood. She says she got scared, but I think she's just perverse.” This one is taller than Furiosa, and lean, a ghost barely darker than the wrappings given them for clothing. She doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding into the darkness as she calls back, “Find a way. You’re needed.”

* * * * *

Curiosity is risky. Curiosity tempts you to stick your nose out from cover, like young Trop on that last run through the Buzzards’ holdings. His first, and only. He’d surely heard the talk all his life, how kamikrazee and unpredictable they were in their spiked buggies. When the time came, he probably couldn’t resist sneaking a look. The surprise on his face--what was left--

 _A waste._ She’ll never say that aloud.

It’s the most wrong-headed, simple-minded thing she’s done, even _considered_ doing, since she earned her grease, but who is likely to question her? Her reputation shields her. Imperator Furiosa is known not to waste energy on pursuits with no payoff. Imperator Furiosa is known for ruthlessness in battle, and an intolerance for War Boy hijinx when there’s War to be done. Above all, Imperator Furiosa is cautious. It’s how she’s survived this long. It goes against everything she’s built, to be drawn into whatever foolishness is germinating in the Vault.

(They had almost abandoned the idea entirely when The Dag asked, unthinking, “Won’t she tell Joe?” It was weeks again before Giddy could convince them the Imperator had no love for her former lord.)

Curiosity is not enough.

The moment she makes the choice, there’s a whisper of regret, but it’s for the best.

* * * * *

Once there was an inquisitive, gangling girl who rode harum-scarum over the dunes in search of game, or just to feel the wind burning her cheeks. She was called Furi, proud daughter of Mary Jobassa, Initiate of Swaddle Dog.

That once-ago Furi hatched elaborate campaigns of mischief, usually dragging her dark soul-twin along for the ride. Raiding for froglegs. Stealing the clothes of the older girls as they bathed at the hot springs. Eavesdropping on Circle to hear the Mothers’ secret plans--not so much secret, as it happened, or even interesting, but the experience was informative. Even when the two of them were caught and set to minding the boring babies as penalty. Those babies would have babies of their own by now; some perhaps even their own Initiates to foster.

She has never allowed herself to reflect on those things. It’s weakness, to let your guard down and indulge memories of a life long gone.

* * * * *

_“The moon’s dark and the ponds are full; you grab Cady’s gig and I’ll get the lantern, we’ll stuff our bellies with no one the wiser.”_

_Val hovered uneasily in the doorway, chewing on a strand of hair. “You don’t even like frog,” she grumbled, “you just want to test Cady’s patience.”_

_Furi slapped a hand over her own mouth to smother the bark of laughter. “And you are too fond of rules, love. Oh, stay if you like, I won’t make you. I just want to dance under this perfect sky.”_

She’s smiling as she rolls over, reaching for Valkyrie’s waist with an arm that no longer curls into a caressing hand. Her eyes open to the solid nothingness, punctuated by a distant _scrunch_ of foot on sand, the clink of tool or knife or keys along the corridor. All things that should be familiar to the point of comfort, but her heart is pounding and her mouth is dry. It’s been a long while since her phantoms have been this restless.

* * * * *

Is it boredom, or the same perversity of black-haired Toast that prods her to abandon all sense of self-preservation?

She never could stand the not-knowing.

What uprising is brewing in that women’s country, that velvet cage, to spark such rash behavior?

In the end she sneaks up on herself, bypassing all her hard-won instincts by acting before she can talk herself out of it.

Furiosa waylays one of the older Pups, a runner with an armload of books bound for Giddy’s library. “Give those here. You go tend to your other duties,” as though he's been shirking. He hands over the stack, grateful to have gotten off so easily, never for a moment questioning her right to alter his plans for him, and now she can’t change her mind and turn back without attracting undue attention. 

By the time she reaches the corridor leading to the Vault she’s shaking, and vows to pass the volumes off to the first attendant she sees and return to the floors below without setting foot in her former home. It’s five thousand days and more since she stood here. How did she ever expect to return and not feel their ghosts pressing on her? _Gingiver, Ange, Sylvie, Marna._ The ones who came here before, the ones she left behind. Those she failed. _Sarai, Cole. Blonde and brown and black and red. Tall, the way Joe liked them._ (Another reason Toast was such a surprise.)

She’s numbed by the rush of memories, so much so she misses the footfall at her back.

“Furiosa,” Giddy says behind her. “Oh, my girl.” And then Furiosa is on her knees, the treasured books spilling across the dusty floor, her face pressed against the old woman’s belly as gnarled hands sooth her trembling. “Hush, my star. No tears, now, there’s words to be passed.” A note of pride rings in Giddy’s voice as she raises Furiosa from the ground and presses a kiss to her knuckles before turning to lead her past the ponderous steel disc.

The women of the seraglio cluster before her in a pack, blonde and brown and black and red, close-lipped and expectant. She’s wary of the anticipation they all wear so obviously.

A golden goddess, her hands resting over the swell of her belly, speaks for them all. “I am Angharad,” she says, “and my child will not be a warlord, nor a warlord’s chattel.”

Furiosa slowly presses the vault door closed, shutting her eyes against the sight before she turns to face these women, whose fate she knows as surely as she knows her own, if she fails in this. _Who is she…?_

“My name is Furiosa, of the Vuvalini, the Many Mothers, and I would tell you of the green place where I was born.”


End file.
